


Band-aids Don't Fix Bullet Holes

by mrs_squirrel_chester



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, GIEPP, Girl in Every Port, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, hurt!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-04 05:26:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4126902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_squirrel_chester/pseuds/mrs_squirrel_chester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of the Girl In Every Port (GIEPP) project. June 2015 submission. From the prompt: female reader works as a receptionist at a walk-in clinic. Rated T. (Dean Winchester / Female Reader)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Band-aids Don't Fix Bullet Holes

The first time you met Dean Winchester, he stumbled into the clinic just as you flicked off the outside lights. He was bleeding from the shoulder, cradling his arm against his stomach, and stumbling as if he couldn’t see straight. Which, judging by the amount of blood that was flowing from a gash on his forehead, he probably couldn’t.

The sight of a beaten man didn’t frighten you. You worked at a free clinic in one of the shadiest parts of town so you had seen your fair share of shit go down. It was the look in his eyes. They were wide enough you could see white, and they darted from side to side. He looked panicked, almost crazed.

“Can you help me,” his voice was sandpaper and gravel.

“Everyone’s gone home. I’m the only one here.” You weren’t exactly sure why you just told a complete stranger that you, a seemingly defenseless woman, were completely alone.

He grit his teeth, grimacing as his knees buckled. He fell hard against the reception counter, sliding it loudly against the tiled floor. You jogged around the displaced counter and slid an arm around his waist, pulling him up. It wasn’t easy by any means. He was tall and thick, in a good way, and under the green jacket and plaid shirt, he was all muscle.

You led the way to the closest exam room, thankful the door had been left open. The motion activated lights flickered to life the moment you half-drug the injured man in before he fell onto the exam table. You weighed your options as he hunched over, gripping his arm against his belly. The closest person with more medical training than you was over 30 minutes away. The only thing you could do was grab everything you needed for an emergency exam. Thankfully, there were several tables set up for tomorrow. You ripped off the shrink wrap and began tearing open the sanitized tools.

Standing next to the leg that wasn’t on the table, you snapped on a pair of purple latex gloves. “Any allergies I need to know about?”

He shook his head, sucking in a breath between his teeth when the movement proved to be too much for him.

“You’re gonna have to let me see.” Even through the latex, you could feel the heat of his hand as you covered it with yours.

His grip loosened enough that you could see a tear in the jacket. There wasn’t one, or even two tears, there were three, and they were long and ragged. You could only imagine the damage done to the skin and muscle underneath. You blew out a breath and pushed the jacket down his arm. The plaid shirt beneath it fell away like torn paper in the breeze.

Three long wounds greeted you, oozing blood and showing off a shine of white that normally shouldn’t be seen. “Son of a bitch.”

He chuckled low in his throat before grinding out the same curse.

You had seen stitches given, even assisted a few times when the patient became too much for the doctor or nurse to handle, but you had never seen anything this deep before. Well, you had, but the person was dead. Had been from loss of blood. And if you didn’t get started, that’s what was going to happen.

You clenched your jaw and started threading the needle.

You don’t know how he did it, but he didn’t so much as flinch under your touch. Oh, he cursed and groaned, even let out a strangled cry every so often, but every time the needle and thread passed through muscle and skin, tugging it together, he stayed rooted to the table.

By the time you finished with his shoulder, you had lost count of the stitches given, and your bottom lip hurt from biting it in concentration.

He rolled his neck, stretching out the tight muscles, looking at you through blood-stained blonde lashes. “You bite that lip any harder and you’re the one that’ll need treatment.”

A chuckle you weren’t expecting spilled out. The blood spilling from the cut above his eye had pretty much stopped, but it was a deep laceration. “You want me to stitch that up, too?”

“May as well.”

“I’d tell you it’ll probably hurt, but seeing as how I just stitched you up from the bone –“

“I’ve been through worse.”

 _I’ll bet_. You didn’t ask him about the scars on his bicep or the one that disappeared below his collarbone. A new needle was threaded before you stood between his legs. At your direction, he turned, facing you head on. You were the same height now, and every time he took a breath, you felt it on your neck and chin, through the strands of hair that had slipped out of the ponytail. Even though his eyes were clear, no panic clouded his incredible green eyes, you forced yourself to watch what you were doing. But damn it, if he wasn’t distracting. The bitter copper smell of blood had started to fade, leaving a mix of sweat, cinnamon, earth, and smoke.  _That’s a weird combination_.

“So, what is it that you do, Mr…”

“Winchester, Dean Winchester, and no Mr. Mr. Winchester’s my old man. I’m a bounty hunter.”

A smirk tugged at his full lips and all your concentration was almost blown to hell.  _Bounty hunter, yeah right_. “Hmmmm, sounds like a dangerous job.”

His left eye narrowed when you clipped the thread. “You don’t believe me.”

Every piece of gauze and cloth that had been tainted by his blood was tossed into a hazardous waste bag. “Not really.”

“Huh, that’s new,” he scoffed as he stood stiffly, rolling his shoulder, testing the boundaries of the newly applied stitches. He looked down at them, running a finger over them. “Not bad for your first time.”

The lid to the canister slapped closed. “A simple thank you would suffice.”

He refused the orange bottles of pain killers, but grabbed the antibiotics. The brush of calloused fingertips on your palm was brief, but your skin itched for more. He shot a wink before turning away, throwing a thank you over his shoulder.

* * *

 

Just when you thought you might forget about the green-eyed stranger, he stumbled in, literally. And just like before, it was closing time, and you were alone. He followed you to the same room as last time, clutching his other shoulder. There was no blood, no gaping wounds, just a pinched expression that wrinkled his brow.

Without direction, he pushed his jacket off. His shoulder looked… weird. One arm hung lower than the other and it made your stomach flop. “I uh… I’ve never put a shoulder back in.”

Dean shook his head, “nothing to it, sweetheart. Just apply the right amount of pressure, and we’re golden.” He gave a wink as he dropped into a chair in the corner. “Grab my wrist and put your foot here,” he pointed to deepest part of his armpit.

“Uh… I’m sorry?” You tried to keep the shock out of your voice, but you failed miserably.

He grabbed one of your wrists and pulled you to him, wrapping your fingers around his wrist. “Grab my wrist, both hands work better than one, and put your foot here,” he pointed to his armpit again, “but take your shoe off.”

You followed his direction, trying not to notice that when he leaned back in the chair, his legs fell open. “Like this?” Pain skittered over his features when you lifted his arm, grinding bone against bone.

He was breathing heavily as he clenched his teeth, “pull once, and make it count. Keep pulling until you feel it give.”

So you did. You pushed with your foot, simultaneously pulling on his wrist. You grunted with the strain and he roared in pain until finally, his shoulder popped back with a sickening wet pop. He shot out of the chair, almost knocking you over in the process. He crossed the room and dug in the small freezer for an ice pack; slapping it against his shoulder with a hiss.

“So… what is it you do?” You shoved your foot back into the black ballet flat before sitting on the arm of the chair.

With his back to you, he rolled his neck, groaning as pain shot through his upper back. “I’m an exterminator.”

 _First a bounty hunter, now an exterminator?_  “What happened, a herd of beetles gang up on you?”

“Something like that.” He began pacing, his head hanging low, shoulders hunched, looking very much like an injured little boy. Ok, not so little.

“You a local or just happen to be passing through two times in three months?” Your foot started to swing anxiously back and forth as you crossed your arms.

“Neither.”

“What’s that supposed to be mean?”

“I was in Stillwater.”

You scoffed, “Stillwater? That’s 3 hours south of here.”

“Yeah, well, you took such great care of me last time.”

You still couldn’t believe it. “You drove  _3 hours_  with a dislocated shoulder because I took such great care of you?” As if saying it again would force your brain to understand.

Then he was looking at you, green eyes sparkling in the horrible florescent lights, and he licked his bottom lip. “I’ve been through worse.”

It took a moment before you found your voice. “I know, I’ve seen the scars.”

The shoulder you stitched three months ago shrugged, stretching the dark blue Henley to the point where you would swear the stitching would come undone. He crossed the room, removing the ice pack as his hiking boots fell heavy on the floor. “For someone who’s helped me twice and seen my scars, I never got your name.”

The sudden proximity of him made your blood pump harder and your mouth go dry. Even though there was a chance you could bump into him, even brush against him, you stood, breathing in his spicy cologne before telling him your name.

He repeated it, his tongue rolling the letters his gravelly voice formed, and you swear your knees started shaking. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

There wasn’t enough moisture in your mouth or throat, so you nodded, hoping you didn’t look like a complete idiot.

Then he did something you didn’t expect. He bent down and pressed a quick kiss into the corner of your mouth. You didn’t even have time to lean into it, to kiss him back or to even really believe what was happening. All you knew was that you blinked and it was over. He side-stepped and disappeared the way he had before, with a wink and a thank you.

* * *

 

“Can’t you just… put a band-aid on it or somethin’?”

Dean hissed as you prodded at the wound, digging out the bullet that wasn’t quite a through and through. “Band-aids don’t fix bullet holes, Dean. Besides, you came to me, remember?”

A laugh ate at the edges of a pain laced groan. “Yeah. I’m beginning to rethink things.”

Metal scraped against metal, but the surgical tongs came out empty. Determined, you pushed them back into the hole that was between two of the scars left by your stitches five months ago. “First you tell me you’re a bounty hunter, then an exterminator-“

He growled as the tongs pushed against the bullet. “What’s your point?”

“What are you today?”

“I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said private eye?”

The tip of your tongue played between your teeth when the tongs were secured around the bullet. “Nope, not a chance.”

The bullet dropped into a metal bowl, followed by the tongs, and Dean slumped over, groaning heavily. “Fuck.”

“Hold still, I’m not done yet.”

He yelped as you cleaned the wound, the peroxide sizzling against the torn skin and muscle. Stitches were next, and you found yourself wondering just how many stitches this skin has seen. Judging by the scars you could see, had seen, it had been a lot. Was there any skin not marred by injury?

“You’re getting better.”

You risked a glance and found him staring intently at you, tongue playing over his bottom lip like he had other intentions on his mind. “Keep coming in like this, and I’ll be a pro before you know it.”

“Where else would I go,” his voice dropped. All humor and pain drained away, leaving a rawness to it that sent goosebumps over the back of your neck.

“I’m sure you have other places you could go, more experienced people.” You avoided his eyes on purpose as you reached over, setting the needle and thread down before grabbing the gauze and medical tape.

“Nope.” The word was almost lost in the sound of tearing tape, but it brushed over your ear.

It was after the gauze was secured to his shoulder that you looked at him. His already indescribable green eyes were even more so, and they kept darting from your mouth to your eyes. His hand was on your neck, fingers tangling in your hair. Callouses scraped against softer skin, and it was everything you thought it would be. He pulled you up so you were standing between his legs, hands on his thighs, gripping onto muscles that flexed beneath your touch.

The air between you was sucked between his parted lips before they were on yours. Unlike the last kiss, if you could call it that, it wasn’t gentle or sweet. It was rough, demanding, possessive, and thorough. My God, was he thorough. You could taste remnants of chapstick, the cinnamon gum he chewed, and the burger he had for dinner. You melted against him, grabbing at the back of his neck with one hand, scraping your nails through the short strands of hair.

His teeth scraped over your bottom lip before he bit down, not enough to hurt, but enough to fuel the heat in the pit of your stomach. His stubbled chin rubbed against yours, making you wonder how it would feel on other softer, more sensitive parts of your body. His lips left your mouth, but that didn’t mean he was done kissing you. They traveled along your jaw, his tongue and teeth making appearances as well, leaving red marks in their wake. But when he got to the spot below your ear, he sucked hungrily.

Your head fell to the side, giving him more access, and he happily obliged to your silent request. You groaned his name, squeezing the back of his neck and uninjured shoulder before he hissed against your skin. He had tried grabbing at you, to pull you closer with his freshly shot arm.

You were both panting when you looked down at him. His pupils were blown, leaving the smallest line of dark green. You ran your thumb over his kiss swollen lip, feeling the ridges against the pad of your finger, even scraping the side of your nail over the plumper than normal lip. “Too much, too soon, huh?”

“A little pain’s good, but not that much.”

Flashes of pain mixed with pleasure burst through your mind, and you could feel the blush color your cheeks and neck. “You want to head out, get a drink or… something?”

His eyes fluttered closed and you could tell he was arguing with himself. “I can’t. I have… things to take care of.” Apparently, the logical side won.

Disappointment put out the fire threatening to consume you whole. You nodded as you stepped back, giving him plenty of room. He stood tall, his hand slid from hair, coming to a stop on the small of your back. “Don’t think that means I won’t be back.” He kissed you again, softer than last time, but firmer than the first. There was no play of tongue against your lips, just a soft moan before he pulled back.

Another wink, and he was gone. You were beginning to think that’s how he would always say goodbye.

* * *

 

There was a knock on your front door. It was your night off and you hadn’t ordered any pizza. No one was coming to visit either, so you were half-tempted to let it go unanswered. Almost every light was off, so as far as everyone in the neighborhood was concerned, you had turned in for the night.

Your attention feel to the book had been meaning to read for the last 2 years just when there was another knock. “I swear to God, if it’s some kid pimping out discounts –“ you threw the door open and whatever you were going to say next, died in your throat.

Dean stood on the other side looking like he had just lost everything that mattered to him. His hands were pushed into his pockets and his shoulders were slumped ever so slightly. He tried to smile, God help him, he tried. “Hey, (Y/N).”

Your chest ached just looking at him. “Dean. What… what are you doing here?”

“I stopped by the clinic, but you weren’t there. I told them it was an emergency. God… I hope that’s ok.” He scraped a shaking hand over his face and that’s when you realized something was  _really_  wrong. But he didn’t give you a chance to ask.

“If it’s not too late, I… I think I’d like to take you up on that drink,” his voice cracked. It was broken, so very broken, and it drove tears to your eyes.

“Yeah, of course.” You stood on tiptoe and wrapped your arms around his neck, absorbing the weight of him as he crumbled apart. 


End file.
